Resident Hetalia
by KateEM
Summary: Never before had America heard of the secretive Umbrella Corporation,that is, until he and his fellow nations are captured by the company for unknown reasons.Being who he is,America is determined to rescue them all and achieve the Hollywood-style ending.


America subconsciously shivered against the bloodied cement wall he settled his weight against, scanning the rancid scented cellar for any sign of danger. Satisfied, he inched forward cautiously, the quiet clicking of his leather shoes on concrete reverberating eerily in the silent room. Silence as of late had been comforting, the lack of noise informing him the area was devoid of_ them. _

Only a few days ago he wouldn't have been able to stand the quiet, being the chatterbox he was. Nor would he have been able to face the terrors that seemed to be straight from one of his many Hollywood, high-expense horror films. However, instincts from past war times kept him sharp, and he held his tongue in fear of alerting any creature nearby of his very much human, highly edible, presence.

A foul stench permeated the air, thick with the unattractive scent of decay. The most prominent colors of the room were gray and crimson, the red being very much an unintentional part of the sparse, dull decor.

In a corner of the room, a half rotten corpse lay motionless, soundlessly oozing blood. Judging by the ruined uniform the body still wore, it had once been a guard, perhaps even one of the men who had guarded one of his fellow imprisoned nations. He supposed it no longer mattered, the zombie hardly had the intelligence to inform him.

America moved to leave the room, approaching a nearby entryway to the next area. He twisted the handle of the heavy steel door to no avail; it was certainly locked. Thankfully it appeared it could be unlocked from this side with the proper key, of course. Turning back to the fallen corpse, he suppressed a grimace._ All right 'ole US of A, this is just your every day, completely average, body search. No biggy._

As he approached, the terrible odor grew stronger, and he choked back the bile rising in his throat. The American crouched, and slid a rusting, yet miraculously still functioning handgun in his bomber jacket's pocket to free a hand.

It took a moment or two, but he manged to find both bullets and a blood spattered key attached to a small key-chain. Absently he wondered how much blood was already on his black gloves; after all, it was difficult to tell in the stifling darkness.

A few more clicks from his shoe and he was again at the rather solid appearing locked door. He exhaled as he fumbled with the key, flipping the object in hopes it would fit the second try. Luckily it did, the tell-tale thunk informing him that the lock was indeed released.

He inhaled sharply as the door creaked open loudly, entering the new area in hopes of finding any of his former companions. The island they had been imprisoned on seemed large enough to make it difficult to locate any of them, especially if they were in hiding. He knew for a fact those Asian nations (and Canada) were particularly good at that. He would swear up and down the whole lot of them were secretly stealthy ninjas.

The youthful nation paused at the entrance, listening intently for any signs of the zombies that tended to inhabit these locations. A low, inhuman moan filled the air, but he was unable to see the decomposing creature. Panicking, he frantically searched his pockets for his lighter, the only means he had of lighting up the room by it's weak light, only to realize he no longer owned one.

As he made to spin and flee back to the previous room, a hand clasped onto his jacket and jerked him off balance, sending him crashing to the floor. Amongst the commotion he had accidentally sent his weapon flying, skittering far out of reach. He couldn't contain a scream as rotting flesh met living tissue.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins gave him enough clarity to toss the ravenous monster aside. His strength was somewhat depleted as he wasn't on his territory, but he was still powerful enough to shove it off himself with relative ease.

Soon the monster would again be on the move, he knew from past experience. Shakily he stood and back himself into a wall, so at the very least he couldn't be tackled from behind. The moaning grew steadily louder as it grew closer with every sluggish, unsteady step forward.

Moments later it was upon him again, but this time America was better prepared for the onslaught; or so he hoped. Probing fingers slid around his ankle, the grip tighter than he would have anticipated. His breath hitched at the unwelcome, terrifying sensation, but managed to keep a firm hold on his growing panic.

_Slide your foot forward, then place your weight solely on that leg, _his battle-trained mind commanded him. _Quickly raise your foot and estimate the place the head is currently located. Strike._

Somehow he managed to miss the head and instead stomped on the shoulder or something equally useless. Pain shot through him as the monster clamped it's teeth into his newly exposed ankle. Suppressing a cry, he felt the heartless creature dig its claws into his kneecap, bearing it's weight against him in an attempt to stand. As he swung his arm to bat away his undead attacker, another arm placed itself on his shoulder. Realization swept through him and he stopped dead in his tracks, numb with fear.

He had completely missed the fact that another flesh-eating monster intent on killing him was preoccupying the room. He swore under his breath.

_Fighting strategy be damned, I'll just plow right through 'em. _With a sudden burst of speed propelled by horror, he took off at a run, the assaulting zombie attached to him being dragged behind for only a few steps. All was good and well until an unforeseen, rather large object blocked his path. When he crashed, the momentum he had gained from running sent him toppling over the side, again allowing the western nation the privilege of getting well acquainted with the hard flooring.

The fall left him disoriented, and if there had been half-decent lighting he likely would have seen stars. He groaned, hands wandering to the floor in order to haul himself up on his feet. However, he paused as he felt something still slightly warm and hard beneath his fingers. It took a great deal of restraint to not cheer as his hand wrapped itself around the abandoned gun.

Suddenly he was thankful for the moans originating from the other side of the room, allowing him to have a fairly reasonable guess at where to aim the weapon. Fingers poised on the trigger, he pulled back and shots rang in the air, echoing quite well in the apparently small space of the room. A moment later a dull thud informed that one of the two zombies had been successfully shot. Whether or not it was completely destroyed, however, was another matter entirely, one which would hopefully soon be solved.

The painfully slow movement of the monsters this time were a blessing, their sluggish movements allowing him to fumble for the bullets in his large pocket, reload, and again take aim. He made a quick estimation of the spot the zombie(s) may be located, and shot. The loud _cling _of metal reverberating on concrete was all the proof he needed to know he missed his target.

Another drop of fear induced sweat beaded on his brow before trickling down his face. If he concentrated too much on just what it _was _he was fighting against, he would become overwhelmed with terror and freeze. The American was fighting the opposing forces on purely instinct and adrenaline, neither of which was guaranteed to last.

Feeling an unwelcome weight fall upon his scuffed shoe he redirected his gun downwards, careful not to point to any limb of his own. This time the bullet did not ricochet, and the grip on his foot slackened. The room was finally silent, save for the nation's labored breaths.

The absence of creatures hellbent on devouring him was decidedly pleasant, and he leaned against a wall for a few minutes, allowing the rush of adrenaline to fade from his system, breathing in the stale, repugnant smelling air. Feeling both physically and emotionally drained, he momentarily entertained the thought of simply falling asleep where he stood.

Attempting to rid himself of the exhaustion, he began searching for some means of lighting. He skimmed the walls with his hands, looking for some form of a light switch. He had seen lit rooms, and knew it was possible to have electricity fueled light bulbs.

It took some time to find, but he finally found the switch and flipped it, allowing the dim light to fully reveal the contents of the room. As expected, two zombies lay on the floor, still occasionally twitching; he quickly averted his eyes from the gruesome sight. The both offending and possibly life-saving table that had previously caused him to fall now laid on its side, the stained tablecloth he assumed once decorated it lying some distance away.

He decided that perhaps this room would serve well as a stop point for the night. He grabbed the abandoned tablecloth that more resembled a filthy, torn rag, and rolled it so that it would serve as a makeshift pillow. America was long since past caring about the unreasonable filth.

The light would remain on for the night, and he buried his face in the cloth, as he felt it's stench was slightly better than the rest of the room.

As he shut his eyes, again, _again, _the images flashed from behind closed lids. He shifted, but still they did not disperse.

* * *

_The conference had been going smoothly (as smoothly as it could, anyways) and America continued to pester England as usual by prodding him with the sharp point of his pen, which caused him to miss the speech by Germany on world economics. Ha! As if he needed _that!

_America grinned at the angry Brit's hushed, yet irate,"Bloody hell, have you no manners?" In response, the childish American leaned back in his chair, causing the front two legs of his seat to lift into the air, and instead began tapping a tune with the writing utensil on the long, round table. Large eyebrows furrowed angrily in response, but England labeled him a lost cause and irritably turned away to listen to the current speaker._

_He pouted, then looked across the table to see Japan quickly jotting down everything said, fully focused on the task of keeping up and missing absolutely nothing. An idea formed in his head, and he grabbed the journal he was supposed to be taking his own notes in, quickly wrote the quiet Japanese man a note._

_It read: "__**Hey man! Wanna come over l8er for some video games? :D**__" _

_Finished scribbling in his usual sloppy handwriting, he slid the note over to the Asian man opposite of him. He watched Japan's reaction, which was glancing across the table with an expression of polite annoyance, before quickly writing down his answer, sliding the note back, and returning to his note taking._

_The response read:_

_"__**Dear America,**_

**Can we please continue this conversation some other time? I am quite busy at the moment.**

**Sincerely, **

_**Japan**__"_

_Again feeling slightly put out, America sighed overly dramatically and ,deciding there was no other option, began to listen to the German, already resigning himself to boredom._

_Only to see Germany's eyelids begin to droop dangerously low, and hear the words slur to be nearly indecipherable in his thick foreign accent. Within a matter of moments, the man collapsed in a heap to the floor, crashing to the floor with a simple 'thump'._

_Instantly, all the nations with the exception of the lightly napping Greece, leaped to their feet feeling both concerned and very confused as to what they had just witnessed._

_North Italy was the first to speak, "Ve~?" In the same manner as his friend the Italian also began to slip away from consciousness, "Do you guys think...Germany will be mad if I sleep...too?" The Italian joined his partner on the floor, and the remaining nations erupted into panic. It was all happening too fast, the attack neither expected now anticipated, sent the room into a flurry of motion._

_England, suddenly understanding the cause of the dire situation, shouted, "Sleeping gas! Grab those two and escape the building!" Being closest to the door, America reached it first, jiggling the handle in an attempt to open the door to no avail. _

_"Guys, it's locked!" Already, some of the other countries lay passed out, and he saw Switzerland hurriedly scooping Liechtenstein into his arms before also succumbing to the fumes._

_He wasn't immune to the effects either, and even as he moved to kick down the door, he felt dizzy and fell on his hind end. When he again looked up, he saw England bracing himself against the wall to support himself. _

_The Briton's words lacked their usual edge, "Can't do much of anything correctly can you?" Giving up the fight, England gave a wobbly salute before collapsing to the ground, still held upright by the wall._

_The last thing America saw before joining his companions in forced sleep was, oddly enough, an English boot not all too far from his face._

_At that point, the American was too tired to care._

* * *

In the present time, America curled his legs further towards his chest, feeling not at all the hero he thought himself to be, and very, very lonely. But he managed a small smile despite himself.

Here, he thought with optimism, was an _awesome _opportunity to show to his fellow nations he was, in fact, a hero. If anything, he would bring them all home just so he finally hear them tell him what an amazing heroic figure he was. And, oh, would he gloat ( which in his mind was not egotistical in the slightest).

When he finally found himself unconscious, this time non-drug induced, it was comforting, and his dreams were oh-so-sweet.


End file.
